Joyeux Anniversaire
by Kore-of-Myth
Summary: What is the meaning behind the flowers? The shopgirl knows, but will the Phantom listen? -- R/C, unrequited E/C.


Joyeux Anniversaire

The shop bell tinkled lightly as the fellow in dark clothes walked in. The shop girl looked up from the skirt she was mending and stood quickly, curtsying to him. The face of the man (she assumed it was a man behind that thick, heavy coat) was hidden by a grey fedora, and so she couldn't see who it was. It wasn't one of her regulars, to be sure, but she felt he needed the proper respect she had given. Perhaps it was the air about him, or the way he held himself. Powerful.

"May I help you, Monsieur?" the shop girl asked. "Are you looking for anything in particular?"

The dark figure ignored her, and looked about the store. They were well stocked with flowers from here, there, and everywhere. The money the shop received from its proprietors was good enough to pay for the special care the plants needed in order to survive the long winter, and intense travel.

The shop girl was quite proud of her uncle's store.

"Monsieur? Is there any way I can…?"

The man turned sharply and the girl stepped back. Still she could not see his face.

"I am perfectly fine," he said in a clipped, voice. But the voice itself…she knew she wasn't any _appreciator de_ _bruit_ but Dear Lord, she knew she would never forget it.

He had strode away while she was shocked, and so she hurried after him. He had made his way to one of the aisles where individual flora was kept for display purposes only. His fingers were wrapped around the stem of a red tulip.

"Monsieur?" the shop girl tried again.

He rounded on her, the flower still in his palm. "Can you not leave me alone?" he growled – that itself was a thrilling sound. But she didn't jump or shake in her stance – she stood still and just shook her head.

"I'm afraid that's my job," she said. She gestured to the tulip in his hand. "Are you thinking of creating a unique bouquet, Monsieur?"

The shadowed figure looked at the flower in his hand as if he hadn't even noticed it had been there before. She found that odd.

"I…have been told that there is in fact a language to flowers." His voice seemed strained. "I…"

The girl gave a small smile. Oh so he was one of _those_ types! He was not the first (and most definitely not the last) to walk through the shop's doors.

"And you would like some assistance then?" She did not wait for an answer, instead brushing past him towards the display shelf. She turned back towards him. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

He was frozen in that same position, flower clenched in his hand. She waited for an answer.

He gave a low, melodramatic sigh. "I do not know."

"Oh," the shop girl said softly. "Well that makes things more difficult." She tapped a finger on her chin. "Is this some sort of special occasion?"

"It is her birthday," He answered. "Her twentieth."

The girl nodded. "May I ask who she is? A friend – a sister perhaps? Or is it some lady that has caught your eye?"

If she could see his eyes, she knew she would have seen a glare. The tilt of his hat was enough for her to take a small step back. "She is more than just _some lady_," he said. "She is…an angel. An Angel of Music."

She could hear the devotion in his voice. And though she had heard such praise before…something was different. Perhaps it was because she couldn't see his face, or even his figure well at all.

"Are you courting?" she asked. "Engaged?"

She knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. "No," he said harshly. "No, we're not. I…tutored her for several years. Only recently has she become entangled with her perceived affection for some _Vicompte_."

Her eyes widened. "So you are hoping to gather her affections this _anniversaire_?" She did not know what to think exactly.

A pause in the air. "No," he said sighing again. "I just want to…let her know I am watching. Always."

Again she tapped her finger against her chin. She thought for several moments before asking, "So Monsieur, will you tell her of your love through the flowers or no?"

He stared – she could tell through the layers even that. The shop girl took it as a yes. She spun away from him and moved down the aisle towards the end. She pointed to three different flowers in turn. "Begonia, Chrysanthemum, and Tulips, all well priced flowers that can be mixed with others but work on their own."

"I beg your pardon?"

She sighed. "Begonias symbolize deep thoughts, while chrysanthemums and tulips come in all sorts of colors. Yellow chrysanthemums mean secret admirer, and a yellow tulip means hopelessly in love."

She could practically _hear_ him bite back the retort before changing it to, "Those are unacceptable."

The shop girl shrugged. "Alright then. We'll do something else." She turned away and was about to point out another item when he stopped her.

"Mademoiselle – I was thinking of something such as all the young girls are sighing over." Putting back the red tulip to its proper place, he reached for a rose, its hue a slight pink.

"No!" she shouted, and he turned, hand still outreached. "_Roses_? I thought you better than that. More than that cliché."

He was silent and just stared before saying in a deathly quiet voice, "_Cliché_, mademoiselle? _Cliché_?"

The shop girl should have realized her customer was angry – but instead she pressed onward. "Don't you understand? _He's_ the cliché, monsieur, your rival. You must go out of the way to catch her eye! Otherwise she'll think it's him, no?"

He shook his head roughly. "_You_ are the one wrong in this instance. For I've heard what they say about roses - they symbolize –"

"Passionate love," interrupted the shop girl, her voice firm. "And nothing else. Just passion."

"Just passion? What do you mean _just_ passion? The way that ignorant fop loves her – psh! His love is nothing next to mine."

The girl said again, "Which is why you need to show her that _outside_ of what he most likely did." She paused, "Monsieur – do not get me wrong – the roses are my highest priced flower. I am not trying to change your mind concerning price. You have only told me so little, and I-"

The dark man cut in smoothly, his tone clipped, yet infuriated. "But you would rather me fail in this attempt – to lose in my chance to win her heart by saying that instead!"

She looked him where his eye was supposed to be. "Monsieur – I just believe that your success will not be ensured if you give her those." She gestured. She knew her flowers, their meanings, and what they entailed. And she listed her ultimatum. "In fact – I wouldn't dare sell _those_ to you. I refuse to."

There was a moment of silence – tense and precarious like the edge of a poorly made knife. At last it was broken. The man threw the rose down onto the display, "Like everyone else you are out against me! You all are the same – you'll rue this once I win her. She is an angel – she appreciates the strengths of passion more than any other. All she needs is to be _shown_!"

His cape swirled as he stormed out, knocking several vases to the floor. The bell of the door echoed the crash of shattered glass.

The shop girl only sighed, before beginning to clean. The man was the same as all the others – insistent he was right when in fact it would lead him to failure.

But her mind didn't rest there for long – she had an order for a Vicompte De Chagny who had made an _excellent_ choice of Black Eyed Susan, Ivy, and her favorite, yellow Tulips.

* * *

Laughing gaily, Christine Daee bid her fiancée good night. She gave him a soft kiss before closing the door, giggling. Her birthday had been _fantastic_ because of him – the flowers he'd given her had meant so much. How they had laughed over the meanings none of the others noticed!

Christine sat down at her vanity, and began to unpin her hair, still smiling at the fond memories. But her grin froze as she saw the bouquet of roses – dark, red roses that made her blood chill.

Their was a note as well, sealed in red wax shaped as Death's head. Hesitantly she reached forward and with her letter opener, slicing it open.

A simple note fell out, and Christine gasped at the contradiction of terms, the confusion, and the way her heart began to race in terror.

The note fell to the floor as the soprano streaked from the room, thoughts of Raoul's slow coach in her head.

_Joyeux anniversaire mon ange. Les meilleurs voeux, votre professeur_

_A/N: This piece was written for the first round of youroctober's Write the Wrong contest. I' was one of ten participants in this multi-fandom event, but unfortunately I had to drop out because of lack of time. This was posted on my Dea Avernorum account originally, but I thought I'd move it here.  
_

_Please take the time to review and let me know what you think!_


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